


Christmas & Coffee

by Ayes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayes/pseuds/Ayes
Summary: Sansa likes her men like she likes her coffee… sweet, strong, and able to keep her up all night.My gift to you all — in which the Baratheon/Lannisters are a real estate company, everyone loves coffee, and Bronn is a Christmas angel. Pure snow-covered Manhattan-based fluff. Not smut, sorry about that first sentence. Happy holidays!





	Christmas & Coffee

Sansa Stark was late.

She wasn’t usually late — in fact, in all nine months she’d worked at Baratheon Realty, this would be the first time she was truly late, barring the occasional doctor’s appointment or subway blockage. It was something she prided herself on. During her licensing course and her sponsorship, she’d made a point to be the first person in every room, determined to prove herself as more than just that girl hired as a favor to her dad.

When she’d decided to move to New York to become a real estate agent, charmed by every brownstone and penthouse and walk-up in the city and eager to become a part of their stories, her dad’s best friend’s agency had seemed like the perfect fit. Of course, once she’d arrived, she’d realized that her new boss was a barely-functioning alcoholic with anger issues, and his son, her former childhood friend Joffrey, was a gross asshole. Even Mrs. Baratheon, who Sansa remembered as the most elegant woman she’d ever met in childhood, had been cold to her. The most life that Cersei ever showed was when she’d breeze in at odd times to argue with Mr. Baratheon in his office. And when her coworkers learned that Sansa was a family friend to their awful bosses, she was frozen out out of their little group. She couldn’t blame them much, as the Baratheons were deeply awful, and her coworkers didn’t trust her not to be loyal to them.

She’d tried to hang out with Joffrey, but all he was interested in was coke and sex — rather ironically, as she’d heard from her coworker Jeyne that the two didn’t mix. When she had rejected his advances, he had become unbearable, pretending he didn’t understand her Northern accent and pushing her things to the floor whenever he passed. She was sure that he’d told people they had hooked up, but at least gaining the ire of Joffrey had been enough to make her co-workers polite to her again.

Despite the Baratheons, Sansa was happy most of the time. She loved Manhattan, loved Brooklyn, loved every skyscraper and park and bodega cat. She loved getting takeout in the middle of the night, glimpsing models getting into cabs, hearing live music at subway stations. She loved the snow on the ground now that it was close to Christmas, the roasting chestnuts and men in suits carrying beautifully wrapped gifts. very time she swiped her metro card she felt more and more like she belonged there, no matter how distasteful the people she was working for. She’d finally passed her licensing exam and applied for her license, so the end was in sight. Three more months, and she would be able to quit, hopefully to find a smaller agency that was willing to take her on. The Baratheon name was enough to boost her minimal resume, she hoped — at least enough to get her out of there.

But the industry was competitive, and she wouldn’t get anywhere if she was fired before she’d been there a full year. And today she was _late_. 

First she’d been up until midnight finishing up some mind-numbingly boring paperwork, crunching numbers for Mr. Baratheon on an impossible deadline, and then she’d woken up a few hours later to the sound of sirens — not once or twice, which she’d usually sleep through at this point — but four times, enough that she’d dragged herself up to check the news. Life in her cute little Williamsburg apartment almost always felt safe, but it still took a scan of Twitter and a cup of tea for her to get back into bed. Then she’d slept through her morning run, which she usually looked forward to, missing the chance to start her day with the view of the bridge and city over the water, occasionally stopping to pet a dog. It was the stress relief she needed, and so she was already stressed out by the time her train was stopped on the tracks — for fifteen excruciating minutes of unintelligible mumbles from the conductor that did nothing to help explain why they weren’t moving. She’d even tripped on the way up the stairs to the street, which sent her off-balance just enough to spill her entire coffee on the beautiful cream coat that her mom had gotten her for her birthday. There was no time to run it to the dry cleaner, either, and she had to yank it off and freeze in the half-block walk to scrub it in the bathroom before making it to her desk.

It all added up to nearly an hour of tardiness, an unheard-of amount for any junior realtor lucky enough to have made it to Baratheon Realty. Luckily, no one had said anything to her so far, although there was always the chance that her absence had been noted by someone.

Sure enough, Joffrey walked by as soon as she was settled, raising his eyebrows at her with a smirk. She could just imagine him going to his dad and making up some story about needing her when she hadn’t been there earlier. She sighed to herself and slipped her wet boots into a bag. Of course she’d forgotten to grab her favorite kitten-heeled slingbacks, which left her with the ugly pair of gym sneakers in her desk’s bottom drawer. They looked bulky and out-of-place with her navy pencil skirt and white blouse, but there was nothing to be done. She smoothed her auburn hair and turned on her computer, glancing back at the direction that Joffrey had gone before deciding to risk leaving her desk again. She needed a fresh new cup of coffee if she had any hopes of saving this day.

The office’s kitchenette was on the far side of her floor. Usually it was reserved for grabbing clients bottles of water or the occasional birthday cake, but today Sansa slipped inside and went straight for the industrial coffee maker. It was a huge, whirring machine, and while it claimed to dispense everything from lattes to cappuccinos, everything it spit out smelled vaguely chemical. Today she didn’t care. She slid a Baratheon Realty coffee mug in place and punched the button for Black Coffee. No whirring. She tapped her nude-manicured finger on the button again.

Nothing.

For some reason that was the final straw. She was scheduled for an afternoon of meetings and there was no hope of running back out for coffee for hours. The nearest café was sixteen floors down and a block away — way too far for her to slip out unnoticed. Lunches had been pre-ordered for their meetings, which Sansa did appreciate, but the salad she’d optimistically selected a week ago wouldn’t do anything for her caffeine crisis — or the frustration that was curling up in her throat. A salad wouldn’t make the hardest year of her life end any earlier, wouldn’t keep Joffrey off her back, wouldn’t help her suck it up here and find a better situation so she could enjoy her New York life the way she truly wanted. Maybe coffee wouldn’t do all that, either, but Sansa thought it would at least help her handle everything a little bit better. At least for today.

She punched the button again.

Nothing happened.

“Gods _fucking_ shit fucking damn it!” Sansa snapped, and thumped the side of the machine so hard that her palm stung.

It was silent for a moment, and then she heard a gruff voice. “What happened, girl, did it kill your whole family?”

Heat flooded Sansa’s cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, then forced herself to turn.

A strange man was leaning against the kitchenette’s far wall, arms crossed. He was smirking at her and _clearly_ amused.

He was also enormous. Sansa came from the North, where people grew plenty big, but this man was easily the largest person she’d ever seen. He practically filled the other half of the room, his head higher than the tops of the cabinets. And he was scarred or something, half his face like a wax mask compared to the other side of tan, clean skin. And he was _handsome_ , though that registered in a distant sort of way that was third to the trauma on his face and second to her unbridled embarrassment.

Sansa sighed and resolved herself to be more polite. “I’m so sorry. Were you standing there this whole time?”

“Aye,” the man said slowly. He looked like he was trying not to laugh now that Sansa had turned her manners back on. “Can’t say as anyone’s ever missed me in a room this size before.”

“I am sorry,” Sansa repeated. Her hand hurt. “The machine….”

“It’s broken,” he supplied. “I know, that’s why I’m here.” She took another look at him: indeed, he was wearing a black polo shirt with a little white logo above his heart. It must have been the largest polo shirt in the world, and yet it was still straining over his shoulders and biceps, pulling slightly across his chest. She felt small and stupid, but then he smiled, and it was warm and pleased and uncommonly sexy. 

“I- thank you.” She smiled back at him, almost without realizing. His smile was just so nice — New Yorkers were nicer than she’d expected, in general, but something about this guy was more genuine than the distracted affability of her co-workers and neighbors. “It’s a good thing you _are_ here.”

“Just in time, it seems,” he joked, and his eyes slid over her, casually. Sansa felt sure that she looked a mess: her sneakers were unflattering, her hair certainly askew. “No worries, I’ll have it fixed soon.”

“Thanks again,” she said weakly, wanting to run out now, but equally drawn to the secret well of warmth inside this intimidating man, preferring their light conversation and the opportunity to redeem herself to whatever awaited her back at her desk. “I’m not normally so…”

“Coffee-crazy?” he supplied. “Caffeine-addicted? Filthy-tongued?”

“I- I’m none of those things!” Sansa couldn’t help but giggle. “I just had a bad morning and I really wanted a cup of coffee before it kept going.”

“I hear you,” he said. There was a set of tools hanging around his belt — he rifled through them now, lifting off a ring of keys and coming forward to open up the coffee machine. Sansa stepped out of the way, but kept leaning on the countertop, reluctant to get going. “I start every day with a big cup, myself. I guess that’s not a surprise, my line of work, but I definitely don’t drink the stuff from these guys.” He patted the top of the machine, much more gently than she’d smacked it.

Now that she was beside him she could smell the man, a combination of espresso beans and sandalwood soap and something that reminded her of soft, creaking leather. “You don’t like your own coffee? That’s kind of false advertising, isn’t it?”

“No one would put me in ads,” he grumbled, rooting around in the open machine and removing a container full of grounds. “Unless it was a profile shot, maybe.”

“No! They — I mean, they might.” Sansa was blushing again. He smirked without looking up at her, seemingly wrestling with a snagged filter. “I mean. I’d look at it.”

“But would you drink it?” He stood up and brushed his hands off, refocusing on her. “How do you take your coffee, usually? Bad mornings aside.”

“Oh…” Sansa liked vanilla lattes, caramel macchiatos, iced coffees with cream and two sugars. The coffee she’d spilled had been a peppermint mocha. But she wasn’t about to tell this guy that. “Kinda sweet.”

“Makes sense,” he said, and winked at her. “I’m Sandor.” He stuck his hand out. It was the size of a dinner plate. She reached out to take it, glimpsing her friend Jeyne outside the breakroom as she did. Jeyne spotted her and mimicked a phone call from across the glass — clearly, it was time to get back to work, coffee or no coffee.

“Sansa. Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Bye!” Sansa dropped his huge, warm hand and practically fled the room, too overwhelmed by the wink and her work and too busy blushing to respond. She had one more chance to glance over her shoulder, which she did, catching Sandor watching her even as Jeyne steered her away.

“Cute coffee guy,” Jeyne whispered. “I told Mr. Baratheon you weren’t at your desk because you were talking to that Park Slope client about next steps, so you’d better call her now. She wants t get in by Christmas, but the contractor wants more money to make it happen.”

“Jeyne, you were supposed to make that call,” Sansa argued, exasperated, but reached for the business card that Jeyne held out. “And was he cute? I didn’t-”

“Sansa Stark, if you say you didn’t notice you’re a godsdamned liar,” Jeyne said sweetly, and swept away.

Sansa made the call. And then she got pulled into another call, and then a post-call touch-base, and then a pre-call powwow for another client. After that was the lunch meeting, and she picked sadly at her pre-ordered salad until she was free. 

She was exhausted by the time she got back to her desk, practically able to _feel_ how limp her hair had gone. She’d made it to one: she still had a good five hours to go. And still no coffee

Or… yes coffee? Because on her desk, a cup was waiting.

Sansa plopped her notebook down and looked over at her coworkers’ desks. She was the only one with a cup from the shop down the street. She picked it up carefully: it was still warm. When she took a sip, it was sweet and creamy with just a hint of vanilla… exactly the way she liked it.

“Jeyne!” Sansa found her in the break room, getting her own drink from the now-working coffee machine. “Did that guy leave?”

“I knew you noticed him,” Jeyne said smugly. “He just took off but he asked me where your desk was, you didn’t see him?”

“No, I was with a client.” Sansa sighed and took another sip of her coffee. It was perfect.

The coffee machine stayed fixed after that. Sansa made it to work on time the next day and the day after, and soon a few weeks had gone by, turning the orange autumn leaves into bare branches. Sansa had spent more than one morning Googling coffee repair companies while daydreaming — surely she owed Sandor a thank you, at least. She found a Facebook profile for a Sandor Clegane in the Bronx, but there was no profile picture, and she started to wonder if he’d govern her a nickname or his last name, or she was spelling it wrong. 

And in the meantime, work dragged on and on. Joffrey followed her around the office, Joffrey’s dad drank at his desk after lunch, and clients threw fits about crown mouldings. Sansa stashed an extra pair of shoes and had her coat dry cleaned and by the time she desperately wanted a cup of coffee again, she could get it from the break room.

She hatched the idea by accident. It was just an idle thought, really, and not an official plan — not until she found herself left behind to do paperwork while half the office was at a boozy client lunch. 

The only other employee left behind was an ancient receptionist named Gloria, a sweet but slow-moving woman who had been selected by Cersei for her age alone — there were a lot of unkind rumors about Mr. Baratheon and his former secretaries, but Sansa ignored even the truer-sounding ones in the name of propriety. Sansa peeked around her desk, but Gloria was taking advantage of the empty office to watch Lifetime Christmas movies on her iPad, her orthopedic shoes kicked off under her desk.

Sansa snuck into the break room, feeling like a spy. The coffee machine was big and chrome-plated, a panel on the front displaying coffee types next to glowing buttons. She ran her nails along the seam of the opening where Sandor had unlocked it, but it didn’t budge. If only she could jam it somehow, he’d be sure to come back and check on it. She wasn’t thinking of breaking it or anything so dramatic. The way things ran at this office, just unplugging it or taking out all the coffee beans inside should be enough for someone to call for repairs.

She felt kind of guilty, but it was worth a shot, right? At least to thank that guy for a gesture that had meant a lot to her. Still, she was relieved no one was there to see, as she emptied cup after cup into the sink.

It wasn’t enough, though. She drained every cup of coffee that the machine contained, and left it unplugged, besides. But the next morning when she went into the break room, there was Joffrey, pouring himself a fresh cup.

“Hey there, beautiful, where’s my morning hug?” Joffrey sneered at her, and Sansa fought not to shudder.

“I thought that machine was out of coffee,” she said instead, and he snorted. 

“It makes more coffee, babe. It’s a coffee machine. Gods, you’re lucky you’re halfway fuckable.”

Sansa turned to leave. Then, fueled by her anger, she turned back to Joffrey. His dumb face made her so mad sometimes — but then she got ahold of herself and turned to leave again, even though he laughed her out of the room.

Gods, she hated Joffrey. And she hated how upset he made her, how she wanted to be as nasty as he was in return. She was determined to rise above and get through the next few months without descending to his level of animosity. And of course, she also had her new goal now — see the coffee guy again before putting in her notice.

Maybe it was crazy, but thinking about him had become her one escape at work. Suddenly it didn’t matter if Mr. Baratheon was yelling about something in his office, or drunkenly accusing her of losing a file. It didn’t matter that Joffrey was a creep or that she had become hopelessly jealous of the happy families she helped settle into new homes. All that she needed to lift her spirits was her little crush, an innocent daydream about a man whose face held a mystery, and whose arms could carry the world.

She’d even started to fantasize about what might have happened, instead of what had. She imagined Sandor finding her in the kitchen and convincing her to leave, grabbing her hand and shoving past Joffrey to bring her somewhere better, somewhere he’d kiss her, a kiss sweeter than cream and sugar.

There were six weeks left on her contract now, with a few days off for Christmas coming fast, and it should have felt easier so close to the end. But every minute and hour and day seemed longer than the last.

One night she had a dream about Sandor. She couldn’t remember much, but she woke up feeling like she’d just seen a long and beautiful movie, and when she stretched in bed, she realized that her panties were damp and her body was buzzing.

“I don’t get it,” she told her sister Arya on the phone the next day. “I’ll never see him again, and I meet new people every day, but for some reason I just really wish I could thank him before I leave this job.”

There was a sound like Arya popping gum, but she could just as easily be working on her motorcycle. “Don’t let your dreams be dreams,” she advised, making Sansa snort. “No, really. What’s standing between you? One coffee machine? I’m sure you can break one little coffee machine. Remember when you fried the dishwasher?”

“That was because you and Rickon filled it with fireworks!” She had a point though. Sansa was a Stark, godsdamnit. She felt a little guilty about doing anything to the property of the Baratheons, but she thought maybe she didn’t owe them quite so much anymore. She’d worked hard for them and been hassled and harassed in return. The way Sansa was, she knew she wouldn’t speak poorly of them in the future… but maybe she could justify a little revenge now.

She thanked Arya and got off the phone. She had a plan to hatch.

The next day Sansa dressed extra nicely and packed a screwdriver in her purse.

Her father Ned had given her a small toolkit when she moved out, but she hardly ever used it, and so it had taken her fifteen minutes of running around in her slip to find it, despite the minute size of her apartment. But now she had what she needed tucked safely away, right between her wallet and her emergency tampons.

She got into the office early, waving cheerily at the security guard at his tinsel-covered desk before taking the elevator to the top. She slipped into the kitchenette, where the lights hadn’t even been turned on yet, and set to work under the cover of silence.

An hour later, Sansa sat typing innocently at her desk, barely looking up when the coffee machine’s lack of functionality was discovered. She went into the lobby to collect a client a few moments later and heard Gloria calling the repair company. Success! A thrill went through her, barely tempered by the thought that she was being crazy. Crazy or not, she had taken matters into her own hands, and she was proud that she hadn’t just let one more thing happen — or not happen — to her.

Sansa went to lunch with butterflies in her stomach. She ran down to the Pret a few blocks over for a wrap, which she forced herself to sit and eat. She had a little over a month left in that office, and she was going to miss the little stops she’d make for food or dry cleaning, the baristas and servers who she chatted to when running errands. She’d miss the little parklet that she read in on nice days. But she wouldn’t miss a single thing up at the office… except for her chance to see Sandor again.

When she went back in, a large black workbag sat outside of the kitchenette. She slipped into the bathroom quickly to assess herself. She was wearing a mid-length tweed dress that, paired with her tall suede boots and her long, straightened hair, had felt kind of flirty in a retro sort of way. She brushed some of her hair back with her fingers on her head, assessing a half-updo, but ultimately left it free. She was nervous, suddenly, despite everything that she had done to make this happen. But it couldn’t be too hard. She’d go in, feign ignorance at the coffee machine being broken, and thank Sandor for the drink he’d left on her desk. Simple.

Heart hammering in her throat, she forced herself out of the restroom and down the hall. Just ten more steps. Then five. Four. Three. She counted the last few down internally, then steeled all her courage to open the door.

A man looked up from the machine, but it wasn’t Sandor. Sansa’s heart stopped hammering and sank fast. He looked up as the door shut behind her, smiling politely.

“Anything I can help you with, miss?”

He was lean and blonde in a dirty kind of way, and his smile was bright and his polo was just the same, but he wasn’t Sandor. And Sansa couldn’t help but be disappointed. This man was also, rather bizarrely, wearing a Santa hat. “I’m sorry I —“ she swallowed. “Sorry, no. But thank you!”

“Not looking for Sandor, are you?” The new man straightened all the way up to look at her, and Sansa fought a blush unsuccessfully. He’d talked about her?

He’d talked about her!

The man smiled again at whatever he saw on Sansa’s face. “Ah, so you are,” he confirmed, though she hadn't said a word. “I knew something must have happened on this job. It’s rare he comes back to work in anything close to a good mood.”

“But he’s so warm and sweet,” Sansa found herself protesting.

For some reason the man laughed at that. “I’m Bronn.” They shook hands, both eyeing each other with unapologetic curiosity.

“Sansa.”

“You look very nice today, Sansa,” Bronn said politely. Then that smirk was back. “Any chance you knew this machine would be breaking today?”

“What?” This time Sansa had no intention of giving herself away. She schooled her features into something bland and polite that she used on Joffrey. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Hmm.” Bronn turned back to the machine. He flipped a panel down and peered inside before he looked over his shoulder again, raising his eyebrows at her.” That’s interesting, because it looks like someone just took a screwdriver and disassembled this thing. It didn’t break as much as someone took it apart.”

“Wow, I hope that’s not hard for you to put back together.” Sansa meant it, too - she hadn’t intended to create work for anyone. She assumed it would be easy to fix. “Is it a difficult repair?”

“Lend me your screwdriver and I’ll have it back together in two minutes.” Bronn smirked at her. 

“I… look, okay. I’m sorry.” Bronn was nice enough, but suddenly Sansa felt ashamed of herself. What if she really had inconvenienced a perfectly nice stranger? What if she lost her job so close to the finish line? And all for a guy who she’d only seen once. Men tried to buy her cocktails whenever she went out - why had one cup of coffee made such an impression on her? “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh, please.” Sansa shoved her hair back, not a little desperate now. “I just really liked him and I know it’s crazy and I never do stuff like this normally, I totally blame my sister, it’s just that this place is _awful_ , and Sandor was really nice to me and I thought he was cute and maybe we had a moment but maybe that was dumb and I just wanted to see his arms again and I’m so, so sorry.” 

She had run out of breath. She bit her lip and watched Bronn’s face. He had all the power now, and all she could do was wait.

“I can’t do that,” he repeated, tugging the pompom on his hat, “because I need to call my boss. This machine’s been vandalized, and only he can fix it.”

Sansa frowned. “Your boss? But you said-“

But Bronn had already whipped a phone up to his ear.

“Hey Clegane,” he said, and Sansa’s eyes shot wide open as she recognized the name, “Got a problem at the Baratheon building. Mmm-hmm. Yeah, I know you were just out here.”

Bronn winked at Sansa, sending his ridiculous hat bobbing. She covered her mouth with her hands. Was she embarrassed? No, she was just excited. Grateful. Even now there was a low rumbling emitting from Bronn’s phone that sent sparks thrilling through her.

After another minute he hung up, and when he smiled again Sansa threw her arms around him. “Thank you!”

“Not sure what you’re talking about, Miss,” he said, laughing. He gave her a careful squeeze and let go. “What we’ve got here is a problem only the owner can fix. Make sure he makes me his best man, alright?”

“I-“ Sansa was blushing again. “Shut up.”

“Never.” Bronn locked up the machine, then pocketed his keys. “Alright, see you around.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I fixed everything I needed to.”

Sansa felt too nervous to wait in the break room, so she slipped back out and too her desk. The office had been decorated in some corporate approximation of Yuletide cheer, although Cersei’s taste lent itself more toward stuffy gold excess, accented in blood red. She managed to do some work, but soon found herself creeping back toward the other side of the office.

Someone had hung a sheaf of mistletoe in the hallway. She peered up at it thoughtfully as she passed under, half-lost to an anticipatory fantasy.

A hand on her arm stopped her.

Sansa jerked her chin up, her breath catching. But it was only Joffrey. His fingers pinched her arm, just subtly enough to be invisible. “Hey, Sansa.”

“Hey, Joffrey,” she bit out, trying to move past him.

His wormy little face pushed closer to hers. Joffrey had perfect teeth and hair, the product of his appearance-obsessed mother, but his eyes were pure evil. “There’s mistletoe.”

“Mm-hmm,” she tried, but he was relentless.

“That means you owe me a kiss.” Something in his voice told her he wasn’t joking, and indeed, he puckered his lips at her a moment later.

“No thanks. Uh, you know, being at work and all.” She went to brush past him, and Joffrey squeezed her harder.

“I said give me a kiss. Just a little one, come on.”

“She said no.” Sansa jerked her head up to face the new voice. Joffrey’s furious face was replaced with Sandor’s. He was standing behind them, work bag slung over his shoulder and straining his the muscles in his forearm. The window was behind him, the cold grey sky playing stark contrast to the warm tones in his skin and eyes. He hadn’t shaved since she’d seen him, and the early bristles of a full beard showed darkly on his handsome face. More handsome than she’d even remembered, though she’d half-convinced herself that he couldn’t have lived up to her memory.

“Who the fuck are you?” Joffrey spat, dropping Sansa’s arm. Sansa smiled at Sandor, but he was only looking at Joffrey, and his eyes were hard.

“How about you leave her alone?” Sandor said instead of answering. His tone of voice was mild, friendly even, but the look on his face and the wall of his body told a different story.

Joffrey had no sense of self-preservation, apparently, because he drew himself up to his full height and glared back up at Sandor. “I’m her boss.”

It was a lie, but Sandor didn’t flinch. “Are you my boss?”

Joffrey sputtered, and Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. It was good to see him be taken down a peg… even if the look Joffrey shot her could kill.

“I’ll go check your contract,” Joffrey hissed, before retreating hastily to lock himself in his daddy’s office.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry about that: I hope you don’t get in any trouble.” Sandor turned to her now, and his gaze made Sansa’s breath come quick.

“Oh, that’s alright, he’s not my boss.” Mr. Baratheon would likely just offer Joffrey a drink. But she was sick of worrying about the Baratheons. She was too struck by the man rising up in front of her, as out of place in her office as a magical creature at a pet store. The stacks of papers, the chattering of her co-workers on phones down the hall, it all faded away. He was really there… and she had no idea what to say. “Um, hi.”

“Hi.” He smiled at her, a slow sunrise of warmth that spread into the laugh lines on his face and made his eyes crinkle in the corners. “Again.”

Sansa turned pink. She hadn’t even been sure he would remember her. “Sandor, right?”

“You got it, Sansa.” He patted his pockets down, then shifted the work bag on his shoulder. “I fixed that machine again for you. For some reason my employees can’t put a faceplate back on and had to call me down here.”

“I’m sure he tried his best,” she supplied, sure her guilt was clear on her face. She didn’t want to get Bronn in trouble, when all he’d been trying to do was help her. Sandor laughed, and it was even warmer and butterier than his smile, despite the rough timbre of his voice.

“He was trying something, for sure.” He hesitated, clearly ready to leave, but just as clearly unwilling to go. Sansa’s heart felt like it was tap-dancing, and she was sure she’d fuck something up in the next two minutes before he disappeared again. “Well, sorry again if I get you in any trouble. Although that guy’s a total prick.”

“He’s something,” she agreed, echoing Sandor’s words. “But it’s really okay. I’m only here for another few weeks, and then I’m free.”

“That’s great to hear.” Sandor glanced up at the mistletoe, still between them, and stuck his hand out. She was a little disappointed despite herself, and went to give him her most professional shake.

Sandor’s big hand closed all the way around hers, and her handshake relaxed at his touch. He enfolded her fingers gently, quickly bringing them to his mouth for a quick, soft kiss. For an instant he looked as surprised as she was by his actions, and then he grinned again. “ So If I take you out for a real cup of coffee, do you promise to stop breaking the machine?”

Sansa grinned back, now pinker than ever “I guess you’ll just have to take me out and see.”

“How’s now?”

“Now?” Sansa peered around Sandor at the window. Down on the street someone had wrapped the trees in sparkling lights, and passersby bustled between them, their arms loaded up with gifts. It was starting to snow, soft little piles of white glitter settling over yesterday’s grey sludge. It looked cold, but with a hot coffee and Sandor at her side, Sansa didn’t think she would mind one bit. "Now's perfect."

And it was.


End file.
